


Dance With Me

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dancing, First Kiss, M/M, wedding crashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He slips up beside Sherlock, at the edge of the dance floor, stands close enough that their arms press together, and he can smell the rosy spice of Sherlock’s cologne, see the slight flush of his cheeks even in the dim light.  “You know,” he finally murmurs, leaning in close, so Sherlock can hear him over the volume of the music.  “The last wedding I was at, I never did get to dance with the must important person there.”  Sherlock looks down at him, eyebrow arching in confusion.  </p><p>John loves this, he loves that he can still surprise him sometimes.  “I’d kind of like to rectify that.”  He holds out his hand, and Sherlock just stares down at it.  “If you want…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little ficlet I had posted on tumblr, but I think that there are some people who aren't there these days, and may appreciate having it here too.

They crashed a wedding.  They actually crashed a wedding.

John smiles to himself, as he takes a sip of the whiskey smash in front of him.  The last time he crashed a wedding was a week before he’d shipped out to A.  It had been a rowdy, boisterous affair, with cheap beer and wine flowing all night, plenty of raucous celebration, and even a couple of swiftly diffused rows.  Tonight’s affair is something altogether different, wholly posh, more in keeping with the social standing of the hosts - politicians, foreign diplomats, one bloke is a duke, apparently.  Establishment.  Old money.

John should be uncomfortable, but he’s had a bit to drink already, and Sherlock looks—well, it’s been quite some time since the mere sight of Sherlock has made John’s stomach flip, and the blood warm in his veins in quite so noticeable a fashion.  He would stay here all night if it meant getting to be in the company of Sherlock looking like this—perfectly coiffured, dressed to the nines, drawing the attention of everyone in his orbit.  He’s beautiful, radiant, incandescent, and the fact that he seems wholly oblivious to that fact, just adds to the allure.  It’s lit something primal, and just a little dark inside of John, a possessiveness he hasn’t felt since the disastrous affair with Janine Hawkins during the Magnussen case two years prior.  

Technically they’re on a case, tonight.  But John is fairly sure that Sherlock figured out, over an hour ago, that their suspect wasn’t so suspicious after all, and now he’s just lingering—delicately sipping at the martini in his hand, now and again, and staring distractedly out at the couples out on the dance floor.  

John hasn’t bothered to ask why they haven’t left yet.  He suspects he knows why.  But the music they’ve been playing up until now has been pop and upbeat, and John’s not about to embarrass himself that badly.  Finally the lights dim, the music slows, and as the first strains of ‘Unchained Melody’ drift over the dance floor, John drains what little cocktail is left in his glass, and gets to his feet.

He slips up beside Sherlock, at the edge of the dance floor, stands close enough that their arms press together, and he can smell the rosy spice of Sherlock’s cologne, see the slight flush of his cheeks even in the dim light.  “You know,” he finally murmurs, leaning in close, so Sherlock can hear him over the volume of the music.  “The last wedding I was at, I never did get to dance with the most important person there.”  Sherlock looks down at him, eyebrow arching in confusion.  

John loves this, he loves that he can still surprise him sometimes.  “I’d kind of like to rectify that.”  He holds out his hand, and Sherlock just stares down at it.  “If you want…”  

Sherlock blinks rapidly, but says nothing.

“But, maybe decide before the song ends,” John smiles.

This seems to reach him.  Sherlock chuckles, low and fond, and then takes John’s hand and lets him lead them out onto the dance floor.  

John can barely remember the techniques Sherlock had tried to teach him during all the evening dance lessons they had shared, but it doesn’t really matter now; this isn’t that sort of dancing.  John slips both hands around Sherlock’s waist, and feels Sherlock tense with surprise beneath his touch.

“John…”  People are looking already.  John can feel it, even though he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Sherlock’s.  “People will talk…”  Sherlock murmurs, rather adamantly.

“People do little else.”  John grins.  Sherlock looks furtively around the room, and then back down at John.  “If you want to stop we’ll stop,”  John reassures.  He’s starting to wonder if perhaps he’s misread the whole affair.  Making Sherlock uncomfortable was the last thing he’d intended to do.

Something shifts behind Sherlock’s eyes.  He frowns.  “Don’t be ridiculous, John.”  And then Sherlock’s hands are slipping around his waist, as well, pulling him close, and the song has ended only to be replaced by ‘The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face’.  Sherlock is wearing his most confident expression now, collected, and just a little haughty, as though daring anyone to question their right to be there, to be dancing like this, touching like this, looking at one another like this.

John can see movement along the periphery of the dance floor, father of the bride murmuring to the event planner.  They’ll be asked to leave soon, but given the nature of the event, and the social standing of their hosts, they’ll not want to make a fuss.  They’ll wait for this song to end.  They’ll be discrete.  

For all his display of confidence, John can feel Sherlock’s hands trembling slightly against the small of his back, as they sway slowly, mere inches apart.  John can’t take his eyes off of him, but Sherlock’s eyes are darting everywhere but where John wishes they’d settle.  

“Hey…”  Finally Sherlock looks down.  “Don’t worry about them.  We’ll leave after this.  You got what you needed, yeah?”

Sherlock swallows, nods.  He cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide, and now John’s finally got his attention back on him, it seems he can’t look away.  John strokes up the length of Sherlock’s spine, and back down to the small of his back again, and Sherlock’s lips part slightly, his breath coming out in a quiet rush.  John smiles.  “What do you say we get out of here, hmm?”

“Yes.”

The song ends, John reaches out and they walk out, hand-in-hand, past some of the rather scandalised guests, past the parents of the bride, past the wedding planner, who tries to stop them, but is summarily ignored.  They walk hand-in-hand through the grand, echoing lobby of the hotel, and out onto the nighttime streets of London.

It’s snowing.

Still holding his hand, Sherlock leans forward on the kerb, and raises his hand for a cab, and then turns back to John, looks down at him, face soft, eyes searching, searching…

John smiles.  “Hello.”

Sherlock’s brow quirks, he puffs out a laugh.  “Hello, John.”

“You have snow in your hair.”

“Mmm…  So do you.”  He reaches up, brushes away a few flakes, and then his hands are there, large and warm, cupping John’s face, and John knows what is going to happen next, and he wants it, he realises.  He’s wanted it for so long, he can’t even remember the moment he first began to feel it, hope for it, dream of it.  

His answer to the gentle inquiry in Sherlock’s eyes is unspoken, just as so many things have been between them, and when Sherlock leans down, and gently presses his lips to John’s, John feels the rightness of it, feels something tight, and heavy unclench in his chest.  He smiles against Sherlock’s lips before kissing him back, slow, and deep, and tender.  

It feels like letting go.  

It feels like starting again.  

It feels like home.


End file.
